


i've got a diamond desire

by lovebug



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Bottom Harry, Coming Untouched, First Time, M/M, Pyromania, Pyromaniac Harry, Top Louis, gemma is cute, harry isn't old enough to buy a lighter and likes giving blowjobs, louis has a hello kitty mug, not really au because remember that one time harry walked into fire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-03-08 23:18:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3227234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovebug/pseuds/lovebug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(“But can’t you <i>see</i>,” Louis hears, and he freezes because that voice is familiar – but not familiar enough for Louis to place, apparently.</p><p>“I’m not buying it to be dangerous or anything, I <i>swear</i>. I’ve never accidentally set something on fire except that one time with my mattress, but I put it out straight away and –” )</p><p>Or, the one where Louis is into Harry, and Harry is into fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pyroharry (fondlouis)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fondlouis/gifts).



> dear ali,
> 
> i have narrowed down my reasons for writing this to 5:
> 
> a.) where the fuck is the pyro harry in this fandom  
> b.) i'm serious where is it i don't understand  
> c.) u are my pyro and my problem  
> d.) i love u very much  
> e.) please do not set fire to my mattress
> 
>  
> 
> title is taken from [black roses by charli xcx](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SuXbwQ-A9pk)

There are many things Louis Tomlinson doesn’t pride himself on, and multitasking is definitely one of those. Or maybe he’s just bad at carrying his shopping and talking on the phone at the same time, but that sounds quite pathetic – possibly just as pathetic as he’s pretty sure he looks when both his weekly grocery shopping and phone have slipped out of his grip and he’s sort of half on his arse in the middle of it all.

Well, either that or people are simply shit at not walking into him. He takes a deep breath because he’s about to give a piece of his mind to whoever the stupidly long pair of legs right in front of his face belong to. He’s pretty sure his phone screen is cracked again and he’s literally just got it repaired after Zayn had convinced him it would be a good idea to recreate one of those stupid drop test videos on YouTube. Unfortunately, Louis hadn’t been sober enough to say no, or point out that people usually used their _old_ phones for that. Needless to say, it hadn’t gone well. 

He hardly has time to blink before suddenly there’s a moderately large hand in his face and _fuck_ ; he really shouldn’t have looked up when he did because he’s suddenly lost all will to start yelling. In fact, he’s lost all will to do anything except possibly get this stranger’s number. This _fit_ stranger’s number.

“Uh, are you alright?” he asks, and Louis realises that he’s still offering his hand and Louis is still staring.

“Probably,” Louis says, giving the guy his hand and letting him pull him up. It’s the least he can do, really, considering Louis is pretty sure he’s going to have to go straight back to the supermarket and jesus, he _hates_ grocery shopping. “I’m not sure I can say the same about my shopping, but I’m pretty sure I haven’t broken anything.”

The guy chuckles and Louis can actually see him up close now – he kind of wishes he’d stayed on the ground because he looks _good_ , and Louis is stood in a minefield of his own groceries.

He’s tall with unruly chocolate curls that are swept over his forehead, and his eyes are green and he’s looking at Louis with this decidedly sheepish expression.

“I’d offer to help you pick it all up but I’m not sure there’s much that’s worth picking up.” he nudges at a leaking bottle of ketchup with the toe of one of his Converse (the fact that he’s wearing Converse is strangely endearing). Louis _knew_ that he should’ve gone for a plastic bottle instead of a glass one, but he’d decided that glass ones looked more sophisticated – despite the fact that Louis is pretty sure he’s as far from sophisticated as it’s possible to be and still drinks out of the Hello Kitty mug Zayn had got him as a joke when he’d first got into Uni.

Louis nods, and if this was anyone else, he’d probably have got a good few minutes of ranting in by now but somehow the only thing that he manages to let past his lips is, “I’m Louis.”

The guy looks confused for a few moments, and Louis genuinely feels bad because he was probably expecting to be yelled at.

“Harry Styles,” he says and how _dare_ he, his lips stretching into an impossibly wide grin as he offers Louis his hand again. Louis swears people who make him drop his groceries aren’t allowed to look this good.

Louis brings his hand up to shake anyway, and he’d never really noticed how small his hands were until he realises how big Harry’s are against his. Not that he’s complaining, but it’s just further proof to him that he isn’t actually twenty one and his birth certificate was actually made a good few years early – he still buys Colin the Caterpillar cake on his birthdays, for god’s sake.

“Nice to meet you.” he tells Harry, and then glances down at the debris around them. “Well, not exactly nice, but...”

“I’m sorry, I was... Rushing?” Harry states, but it sounds more like a question, and Louis would pry but that’s when he spots something in the middle of his shopping that he knows for sure he didn’t buy.

He bends down to pick up the electric firelighter (of course he recognises it, how couldn’t he after the time Zayn decided to try and light a barbecue indoors and ended up setting off the whole block of flats’ fire alarm off) and holds it out to Harry, unable to help feeling bemused, because who carries a _firelighter_ around town with them?

He doesn’t expect Harry to react the way he does – when he looks back up at Harry’s face he’s flushed a bright shade of red, and Louis immediately feels awful because Harry’s embarrassed, but as to why, Louis has no idea. He’s just giving him his firelighter which he dropped.

“Thanks,” Harry mumbles, picking it up lightly out of his hands and holding it in one of his and _fuck_ _him_ for only needing one hand to hold it while Louis needs two.

Louis figures Harry isn’t going to say anything else, and quite rightly so, because Harry looks down at his shoes for a moment, and Louis sees him shuffle his feet, so he clears his throat loudly, trying to get Harry to look at him. Harry’s eyes flick back up at him and he mentally breathes a sigh of relief, but suddenly Harry’s eyes flick back down.

“I’d better get going, I’m – uh,” Harry falters, and Louis can see that the tips of his ears are flaming just as much as his cheeks are. There’s something he’s missing, he’s sure of it, but he’s not sure if asking Harry what the fuck is going on is going to make him cry, and he really doesn’t want to do that.

Louis pauses. This should be the part where he doesn’t let him go without a fight, or at least that’s what’s meant to happen in the majority of the top secret stack of chick flick DVDs he keeps hidden at the back of his wardrobe. Those are reserved for either when he’s dumped by someone or when he just fancies a cry over a tub of ice cream (which happens on an embarrassingly frequent basis).

In fact, he watches his way through Dear John, How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days and half of Bridget Jones’ Diary that night while lamenting over the fact that he managed to somehow lose quite possibly the best looking guy he’d ever seen in his life without actually having him in the first place – and worst of all, he has absolutely no idea as to how.

 

 

\----------

 

 

Fortunately (or unfortunately), Doncaster really isn’t the biggest of places and he runs into Harry in the week. Or rather, he’s queuing at a checkout in Tesco’s with a crate of beer when he hears a commotion in front of him.

Just his luck to be stuck behind the person arguing with the cashier, honestly.

“But can’t you _see_ ,” Louis hears, and he freezes because that voice is familiar – but not familiar enough for Louis to place, apparently.

“I’m not buying it to be dangerous or anything, I _swear_. I’ve never accidentally set something on fire except that one time with my mattress, but I put it out straight away and –”

“Sir, I’ve already told you, I’m afraid I can’t sell you this item unless you show me some form of ID.” the bored looking teenage girl at the checkout drones, clearly more interested in her nails than actually dealing with the problematic customer.

Louis isn’t the most patient of people, especially when he’s already hungover and there are people making more noise than he’d really appreciate considering he only got out of bed about an hour ago.

He turns to the customer, ready to tell them to shut up and get out unless they actually have ID on them (possibly in more colourful language than that) when he starts in surprise.

“He’s with me.” he says hurriedly, because Harry Styles is stood there, clutching a neon orange plastic lighter and looking pleadingly at the shop girl.

Harry’s gaze snaps to him and he blinks in surprise, before going to shake his head in dismissal. “Actually, uh –”

“ _He’s_ _with_ _me_.” Louis repeats, raising his voice a little and keeping his eyes steadily boring into Harry’s. “It’s fine, uh, the lighter’s actually for me. I just realised I’d forgotten to go and get beer, so I asked him to queue for me.”

The cashier quirks an eyebrow at him, her gaze moving between the both of them a few times, before it settles on Louis again. “Alright.” She says, reaching for the lighter from Harry so she can scan it.

Louis keeps his eyes on Harry, and feels heat curl low in his stomach when he realises that Harry isn’t looking away from him either.

The cashier clears her throat loudly, and Louis turns his head to look at her as she scans his beer, and then rings up the total on the till. He has a feeling that she’d have questioned them if there hadn’t already been such a long line of people behind them, thanks to Harry.

“That’ll be nine fourty one,” she announces unceremoniously as she holds her hand out. Louis slides his hand into his pocket for his wallet so he can pull out a ten pound note, half wondering if this girl has ever considered trying to engage in any sort of conversation with customers before, half wondering why on earth Harry would need a lighter at ten o’clock on a Saturday morning.

Once he’s paid, he lifts the crate of beer up from the checkout and hands the lighter to Harry, but before he can say anything, Harry immediately cuts in.

“Thank you so much for that... Um.” he pauses for long enough that Louis thinks he’s done talking, but when he goes to speak Harry starts again. “You really didn’t have to do that, but I appreciate it.” he finishes, glancing quickly at Louis and Louis can see that he’s gone ever so slightly pink again.

Louis shrugs, starting to walk towards the exits but Harry falls into step beside him, turning the fluorescent lighter over in his hands and Louis can’t take his eyes off them for a few moments, swallowing visibly. When he manages to tear his eyes away, they’re almost at the exits, and the automatic doors swing open for them with a squeak.

“It’s no problem, Harry. I mean, it’s just a lighter... Don’t really see why they wouldn’t let you buy it, myself, but...” he trails off, shifting the crate of beer to his other hand because maybe he isn’t just manly enough but it’s _heavy_. “Just remember your ID next time, yeah? The people behind you might not be so willing to cover for you.”

Harry’s hands fumble with the lighter for an instant, and it hits Louis so suddenly that his head snaps up so he can look at Harry’s face.

“You’re not eighteen?” he asks, and Harry shakes his head wordlessly, flicking at the spark wheel of the lighter with his thumb until a flame flares up, flickering brightly for a few seconds before burning out as suddenly as it appeared.

“Then how old are you, Harry?” Louis asks fearfully, and he doesn’t really know why he’s so afraid because it’s not as if they’ve done anything together or anything like that. He’s only met him twice, and it’s not as if anything is going to happen, but –

“Seventeen.” Harry doesn’t take his eyes off the lighter as he mutters it, but Louis inwardly breathes a sigh of relief. Seventeen is okay. He looks older, that’s for sure, but seventeen is fine.

Harry watches one last flame flicker up before he slips the lighter into the pocket of his jeans, and Louis’ breath catches in his throat because it’s the first time he’s actually noticed what Harry’s wearing, and what Harry’s wearing is extremely tight jeans (and a white t-shirt, except he doesn’t really notice that until afterwards).

“Is that, like,” Harry begins, licking his lips, and Louis realises that he hasn’t said anything. “A problem?”

Louis absolutely refuses to get his hopes up. He isn’t going to start getting feelings for some seventeen year old who carries firelighters around with him and tries to illegally buy lighters for himself – and does his best to ignore the voice in the back of his mind that asks him whether, possibly, it’s a little late for that.

“Why would it be a problem, Harry?” Louis asks, keeping his voice even as he presses the button on his keys to unlock his car. He can’t look at Harry right now, so he busies himself with setting the crate of beer on the roof of his car while he opens one of the back doors, then setting the beers in the backseat.

When he looks back at Harry, he catches Harry’s eyes on him for a split second before Harry is looking away, one hand slipping into the pocket of his jeans to close around his lighter, but he doesn’t withdraw it. He doesn’t answer Louis’ question either.

“Why didn’t you put the beer in the passenger seat?” he asks, something unreadable glinting in his eyes as his eyes flick up to meet Louis’ finally. They both know the answer to that question but Louis isn’t going to give Harry the satisfaction of hearing it.

Louis opens his mouth ready to say something, although he isn’t quite sure what, when he hears a shout in the distance.

Harry whips round, his hand flying out of his pocket guiltily, and then Louis visibly sees his shoulders slump a bit, his posture relaxing. It is then that Louis hears it again.

“Harry!” someone calls, and he sees a blonde boy advancing towards them, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up and his hands stuffed deep into his pockets. “Who’s your friend?” he adds, a little louder, and then Harry turns back around to Louis and sighs.

“This is my friend Niall, so,” Harry says, and Louis nods, not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed that Harry has to leave.

“I’ll see you around, yeah?” he asks, getting into the car, and Harry nods. He sees Harry’s friend come up to stand next to him, but Harry doesn’t take his eyes off Louis, so he leans around the front seat to reach for the crate of beer and very deliberately places it down on the passenger seat, before reversing out of his parking space wordlessly.

It doesn’t properly hit him until he’s halfway back to the flat that Harry actually followed him all the way back to his car.


	2. Chapter 2

Louis doesn’t see Harry for exactly nine days after that (not that he’s counting or anything).  He even loiters around Tesco’s for a good couple of hours one evening after uni in case Harry happens to appear and start unlawfully trying to buy lighters again – he has half a mind to ask the staff if that happens often.

His breath hitches when he sees a head full of curly hair heading towards him, and he ducks behind a display of hardware items, his heart beating so violently in his chest that he’s worried other people are going to hear it. The head disappears in the sea of people, and Louis breathes in deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose tightly between his fingers.

It hits him then what he’s doing, and he grabs the first thing he sees, hoping to make a quick exit when he realises that the head really hadn’t disappeared when he thought it did – it’s mere inches from him and it’s inspecting the hardware display with an interest that Louis reserves only for Jake Bass and the more intense episodes of America’s Next Top Model. And also it’s unmistakably, unequivocally Harry.

As he’s driving back to the flat, he miserably comes to the realisation that he is utterly fucked.

That night, after he’s got through almost an entire bottle of wine and managed to drunkenly navigate himself to Pornhub, he gets himself off imagining Harry’s obscenely plump lips stretched around his cock and comes harder than he can remember doing in years.

 

\----------

 

Naturally, the next day Louis feels utterly haggard and when his uni classes are over for the day, he drags Zayn into the closest coffee shop to the campus that he can find.

“Please, just get me the biggest, most caffeinated thing that they do here.” he begs Zayn once they’ve found a small corner booth, waving a fiver at him. He tips his head back and lets the pungent smell of coffee wash over him, the warmth of the coffee shop making him feel ever so slightly drowsy.

“We charge extra for people who fall asleep, you know,” he hears someone murmur behind him and he jolts in surprise, his eyes shooting open.

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, turning around to see who’d scared him. In fact, scared was an understatement.

Of fucking _course_.

“My name’s Harry, actually.” Harry’s face splits into a manic grin, his cheeks dimpling and Louis isn’t sure if he wants to kiss him senseless or shove him back into the haphazardly stacked pile of chairs behind him. He’s wearing an apron, for fuck’s sake, with a little nametag that reads ‘Harry’ with a rather lopsided smiley face next to it.

“How could I forget?” Louis asks, keeping his voice light, his eyes pointedly flicking down to the nametag pinned onto the front pocket of Harry’s apron. “And even if I _had_ forgotten, it’s right there.”

Harry chuckles, rubbing at the back of his neck sheepishly. This should probably be the moment that Louis asks what time Harry gets off work and if he can take him out afterwards, but clearly fate doesn’t have that in store for him since Harry places his hand on his arm and his brain kind of goes completely blank for a few moments.

“Uh, I hope that lighter came in handy.” he blurts, and Harry blinks at him.

Of all the stupid questions he could’ve asked.

“Yeah,” Harry replies casually. Too casually, almost. “I, um –” His eyes dart down for a short instant, before he opens his mouth as if to say something, and then closes it again. “Yeah, it did.”

“Who was your friend? The blonde one?” Louis enquires, and then mentally kicks himself as hard as he possibly can without actually kicking himself. This isn’t fucking twenty one questions.

“’s Niall,” Harry says, shrugging slightly, but Louis can see the guarded look in his eyes fade, his tensed shoulders relax. “My best mate.”

Louis nods, because he isn’t really sure of what he’s supposed to say to that.

Luckily, it seems as if Harry isn’t done speaking, so Louis doesn’t have to say something pathetic like ‘cool’.

“Look, um.” Harry slips his hand under the side of the apron, and Louis can see him reaching into the pocket of his jeans for something. “Obviously, if you wouldn’t like it then I’d totally understand because I’m seventeen and I made you drop your groceries and half the people that work at Tesco’s hate me but,” he pauses to take a deep breath, and Louis’ own breath catches, because surely Harry isn’t going to do what he thinks he’s going to do, and –

“Who’s this, Lou?” Zayn asks, placing a tray bearing two cups filled to the brim with something frothy.

Louis is half tempted to kick him under the table, but he isn’t a savage, despite what people in his high school footie team thought of him, so he settles for turning around and giving him a tight-lipped smile which he hopes conveys the force of anger which he is feeling towards him at that moment. He hates him with the fire of a thousand suns. That’s a direct quote.

(Maybe Louis is a little dramatic, but he’s allowed to be).

“This is Harry,” Louis tells him, because honestly, that’s just about all he knows about him. “He’s the reason I dropped the shopping the other day.” he adds, and as introductions go, he could probably have done better.

Harry raises a hand to wave at Zayn. “Sorry.” he says, and Louis really thinks that it would’ve been a better apology if Harry had actually managed to sound even the smallest bit apologetic. “He made me drop my firelighter, so we’re pretty even.”

Zayn quirks an eyebrow at Louis, and then looks back at Harry.

“Then he bought me a lighter...” Harry reaches into his pocket and draws it out, the obnoxious neon orange colour flashing under the dim, mellow coffee shop lighting.

There are tiny stickers all over it, is the thing, and Louis kind of tunes out whatever Harry says next. Tiny, glittery heart stickers. Christ.

 

\----------

 

“He’s seventeen, Lou,” Zayn sighs, disappearing into the kitchen as Louis flops down on the sofa, digging down between the cushions for the remote. He’d hidden it because he knew Zayn was too lazy to try and look for it, and also because Zayn kept watching his stupid nature documentaries when there were much more important things on, such as footie, or reruns of The IT Crowd.

“So? Age is just a number, Zayn.” Louis delivers mock-seriously, but honestly, Zayn is overreacting.

“He’s still in school!” Zayn exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air as he comes back in from the kitchen.  Louis can hear the microwave beeping as it starts reheating something – most likely the lasagne Zayn discovered at the back of the fridge while cleaning it out the other day which Louis had insisted was still edible. What even _was_ black mould?

“He’s in his last year of sixth form,” Louis defends weakly, and Zayn scoffs, but comes and sits down on the sofa, stretching his legs out over Louis’ lap and resting his socked feet on the armrest.

“What’s on, anyway?” he asks, and Louis can tell that there’s more he wants to say, but he’s grateful Zayn’s dropped it, so he passes him the remote and tilts his head back so he can look up at the ceiling, his heavy eyes closing in a matter of moments.

 

\----------

 

It’s a Sunday morning when Louis finally decides to take matters into his own hands. He sets his alarm for eight, which is a change for him, although he almost balks and goes back to bed when he looks out of the window and sees the rain that the weatherman did _definitely_ not predict yesterday.

He buttons his jacket and slings a scarf around his neck and he doesn’t even know why he’s doing this, hell, he doesn’t even know if Harry’s _working_ today, but he needs to prove to himself that fate is not against them and their conversations do not keep getting intercepted for a specific reason (maybe he’s being dramatic, but really, he’s wanted to get Harry’s number since the first time he saw him, and today is going to be the fifth time and he still hasn’t got it so really, he’s four times behind schedule).

Ever the considerate roommate, he slams the front door of the flat as loudly as he can on his way out because honestly, if he’s up then Zayn should be up, too. Also, he hasn’t had breakfast yet and Zayn can at least make toast without burning it, a skill Louis has yet to master.

He puts his hood up and stuffs his hands as deep into his pockets as possible, because he’d completely forgotten about buying a new umbrella ever since he’d broken his last week – or rather, he still maintained that the wind had turned it inside out, but according to Zayn, that was his fault.

He pushes open the door of the coffee shop, glad that it’s only a short walk from the flat, and looks around immediately – only to spot Harry’s blonde friend whose name he’d forgotten as soon as it had fallen past Harry’s lips staring at him from his place by the counter.

Louis makes his way over to him, a mantra of _whatthefuckamidoing_ echoing in his mind like a chant of some sort.

“No queue today,” he states conversationally, raking his mind to see if there’s any possible way that he does somehow know this kid’s name.

“It’s ‘cause you’re early, see? People usually tend to sleep in on Sundays.” The blonde says, peering down at Louis and _why is everyone taller than him?_

“I usually do too, today’s a one-off. I’m usually too hungover to get up till well into the afternoon.” Louis shrugs, glancing up past the blonde’s shoulder to study the coffee menu.

The kid laughs, genuinely laughs, and Louis actually does feel a little bad for not bothering to remember his name. “I’m Harry’s friend,” he tells Louis, offering him a hand.

Louis shakes it, before sticking it back into his pocket because it’s _chilly_ , even in here. “Well, Harry’s friend, shouldn’t you be wearing a nametag?” he questions, and the blonde chuckles.

“I’m Niall, and...” he looks down to check for a moment before looking back at Louis and shrugging. “Guess I should be.” he says.

If there’s some sort of ‘supportive friends’ lottery, then Harry must’ve clearly won it over Louis.

 

\----------

 

“Listen, Niall,” Louis starts, and hitches himself up to sit on the counter, any notion of ordering coffee long forgotten. He’s on a mission. He did not wake up at eight this morning for nothing. “Considering you’re the only friend of Harry’s I know, I may need your help with something.”

“May?” Niall quizzes, and Louis sighs minimally.

“Definitely. Definitely need your help with something.” he admits, slipping his phone out of his pocket and placing it in front of Niall. “My passcode is 2491, and I’d be a little concerned at how good a friend you were to Harry if you didn’t have his number.”

Grinning up at him widely, Niall inputs the passcode. “You underestimate me. Know it off by heart, mate.” he states, the tip of his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration as he spells Harry’s name out letter by letter.

Louis is all set to tell him he’s a slow typer, but he probably shouldn’t be looking the hypothetical gift horse in its hypothetical mouth.

As Niall mutters the numbers under his breath while he types them in, Louis rolls his eyes, but holds his hand out for his phone once Niall’s gone quiet.

Niall smiles gleefully as he hands the phone back, and Louis looks down at the screen to see that there are about a dozen different coloured heart emojis after Harry’s name. He didn’t even know that many _existed._

“Right. Thanks, Niall.” Louis nods, thumbing over the moderately fresh crack in his also moderately fresh screen that he still totally blames Harry for.

“So, did you actually come in here for a coffee?” Niall queries, then after a second adds, “And are you aware that you’re smiling at your blank phone screen right now?”

 

\----------

 

When Louis makes his way out of the building a few minutes later, a large takeaway cup of some sort of coffee that he isn’t even going to pretend he knows the name of in his hand, he pulls his phone back out of his pocket and unlocks it, before pulling up a new text to Harry.

He stares blankly at the screen for a few moments because _i’ve wanked over you approximately eleven times in the last nine days and i’d like to take you on an actual date_ is just about the only thing he can think of to say, but he doubts it’s among the best conversation starters that he’s ever thought of.

He eventually settles for the under 18 emoji (which he’d never actually noticed existed before) and a fire emoji, because why the fuck not? He trawls through the emojis again a few times to try and find a ketchup bottle, but unfortunately, he isn’t that lucky.

Harry replies within about ten seconds, and Louis is utterly endeared – all it takes is the monkey emoji.

 

                                                                                       


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> well here we are despite minor technological difficulties (i'm still not quite sure how the clock on my phone works)

They don’t stop talking, is the thing. They migrate to Whatsapp after a while, and Louis has a feeling it’s to do with the fact that he’s stood with a monkey in [his picture](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/B8eSyoUIQAA8cDI.jpg) and – judging by the copious use of monkey emojis in his texts – Harry certainly seems to like monkeys.

Louis asks him one day while he’s slowly being bored to tears at a uni lecture, and in response Harry sends him a screenshot of his picture with Louis cropped out. Louis isn’t quite sure how to feel about it, so he sends Harry a slanty face and then slips his phone back into his pocket, turning his attention back to the mind-numbingly dull lecture. He’d always thought drama would be acting, and fun and having to make out with hot guys because of the lack of girls in the class – unfortunately, they had to sit through lectures, write extremely dull essays on things like the Peculiarities of Euripidean Drama and the class probably had a 80:20 girls to boys ratio. Louis would probably get more fun out of studying maths, which he’d ended up with a D in when he was in high school and then proceeded to vow to avoid it in any and every way that he possibly could.

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he ignores it in favour of reaching for his bag so he can get a notebook and paper out – and so what if he only has ten minutes of the lecture left because he’s spent the last hour and twenty minutes talking to Harry? It’s never too late to start learning. In fact, he’s pretty sure he’s doing Harry a favour by not talking to him as well since he knows for a fact that Harry has double Latin on Wednesday afternoons and takes every opportunity to complain about it.

Maybe he’s in far too deep, but he can’t bring himself to care, especially when he checks his phone after class has finished to find that Harry has sent him three messages:

Harry [15:42] – It’s true.  
  
Harry [15:45] – But you’re my favourite.  
  
Harry [15:45] – Tell the monkey I said sorry.

 

                                                                                            

 

Louis’ heart is pounding in his chest and he has no explanation as to why. As soon as he’s sat down in the driver’s seat in his car and slammed the door, he sends a text of his own back.

Louis [15:47] – Prove it.

 

                                                                                            

 

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, so when his phone buzzes again he looks down almost instantaneously, his breath catching when he sees that he has a picture message from Harry.

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a few moments before swiping his thumb across his screen to open the message.

Harry’s sent him a picture of himself holding the lighter – Louis can only really tell it’s the lighter because the pink heart stickers are still dotted all over it, and surprisingly none of them have fallen off yet. _This ran out last week_ , Harry’s captioned it, and then another text comes through.

Harry [15:48] – Remind me to buy better stickers next time though, I keep having to glue these back on.

 

                                                                                            

 

It is at this moment that Louis realises that he is utterly, totally, and completely screwed.

\----------

_Can I have a lift back from work?_ Harry texts Louis a couple of days later, followed by another message, _Niall left me to close up :(_

_No_ , Louis is supposed to say, or _can’t you ask one of your friends?_ He’s meant to put his phone back down on the coffee table and continue watching the episode of The Undateables that he’d made Zayn record for him. _Why are you asking me?_ He should probably reply with, because that's what he'd do if he was sensible.

_I’ll be there in a couple of minutes_ , he texts back, before getting up from the sofa and reaching for the jumper he’d slung over the back of the sofa half an hour earlier when he’d got back from the Chinese.

He pulls it on and then stuffs his phone into his pocket, slamming the flat door behind him. He doesn’t have a clue where Zayn is, but then again he often doesn’t and he gave up on worrying about that a long time ago.

Once he’s parked his car relatively near where he remembers the café being, he ambles along the pavement, the nighttime chill biting at his face and creeping under his sweater, making him shiver slightly. A slight breeze whips up and he can feel the cold stinging his ankles, exposed by his cuffed jeans – he has far too much pride to stop buying jeans that are for people who probably aren’t insecure about their height, despite the fact that all of his pairs go on past his feet and Zayn nags him to buy himself a pair of _short person jeans_ on at least a weekly basis.

Louis still maintains that the best things come in the smallest packages, and he is totally _not_ bitter about that time when they wouldn’t let him on half the rides at Disneyland Paris on that school trip because apparently he wasn’t tall enough. Space Mountain hadn’t looked _that_ good, anyway, and the Dumbo ride had been surprisingly entertaining.

He hears a tapping on glass that breaks him out of his reverie, and he turns to see Harry tapping on the window of the coffee shop from the inside, chuckling at his startled expression.

He pushes the door open and waits for it to close behind him before he turns around to Harry. He's scrubbing at the counter with a rag, his teeth digging into his sinfully plump lower lip in concentration, a couple of ringlets hanging down into his eyes, having escaped the khaki headscarf that he’d pulled his hair up in.

“Hey,” Harry looks up at him with a wide grin, dropping the cloth down on the counter so he can reach up and tuck the flyaway curls back into his headscarf. “Wasn’t sure how else to get your attention, sorry.” He adds after a moment, but a quick glance at his grin makes it painfully obvious that Harry is anything but sorry.

Louis shakes his head, a mock-hurt expression finding its way onto his face as he crosses the room to lean against the counter opposite Harry. “If you’re going to say sorry, you could at least act it.” He replies, making a face when he feels the sleeves of his sweater getting damp and realises that he’s leaning on the part of the counter that Harry’s already cleaned.

Harry laughs again, throwing his head back, and Louis wants to say something, anything, but the words disappear on the tip of his tongue when he sees the exposed column of Harry’s throat. It’s the kind of pale that Louis wants to bury his face in and bite into, to leave marks all over so it doesn’t look so white, so _pure_.

Harry seems to notice that he’s distracted and takes advantage of it by tossing him a dampened rag that Louis blinks in surprise at and just about manages to catch just before it hits him in the face.

Louis levels Harry with a look of disbelief for a few moments, raising both of his eyebrows at Harry, before a look of realisation dawns on his face and his eyebrows furrow. “You called me here to help you clean up, didn’t you?” He accuses, but apparently Harry can sense that there’s no conviction whatsoever behind his words, because he giggles gleefully.

“I didn’t know you’d get here so quickly.” Harry defends weakly, mirth lingering in his voice. “But I could always use another pair of hands, so if you’re offering...”

“I’m not offering anything!” Louis tries to make himself sound at least a little outraged, but apparently the fact that he’s taking drama in Uni counts for nothing, and he doesn’t manage to sound even remotely angry, so he sighs in resignation and starts scrubbing at the counter.

“I haven’t been trusted to lock up by myself for ages,” Harry tells him after a minute or so of silence, and Louis wants to question why he sounds so _proud_ about that, when Harry speaks up again. “See those singe marks over on the corner of the counter?” He questions, and Louis glances over at them with a nod, not really needing much of an explanation.

Louis wants to ask him what his deal is with all of this fire stuff, but he doesn’t quite know how to approach it and Google-searching _how to ask someone if they’re a pyro_ hadn’t been quite as helpful as he’d hoped it might be. If Google can’t tell him anything then he’s pretty sure that he’s by himself on this.

“So, where’s Niall?” Louis asks after a few beats of silence, just because he’s worried he’s going to blurt something out about Harry and fire that he probably shouldn’t.

Harry’s glance flicks up from the glistening patch of counter he’s scrubbing to Louis. “Oh, he’s back in Ireland for some family thing. His great aunt Ruth died, so I think he has a funeral or something to go to?” He recalls uncertainly, and Louis can’t help but feel amused.

“A funeral or something?” Louis chuckles, and he’s never laughed about a funeral before but he can’t really bring himself to feel bad about this because Harry’s face lights up with a sheepish smile and Louis is pretty sure his heart stops in his chest for a second. “Harry, how many other ways are there to celebrate people dying?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call a funeral a celebration,” Harry fixes Louis with a reproachful look that almost makes Louis feel bad. Almost.

“Well, look at you being the expert on funerals when you didn’t know what they _were_ a second ago.” Louis counters, but apparently Harry is apparently having none of it since he reaches across the counter and flicks Louis in the cheek with the tip of the damp rag.

Louis grabs his hand quickly before Harry can retract it, and the touch feels almost electric. Louis’ breath hitches in his throat, and he chances a look at Harry’s face because he _needs_ to know, _has_ to see if he’s the only one feeling this, or –

He hears the wet slap of a rag hitting the counter and then Harry’s hand is tearing out of his grip, and Louis is confused for a moment because he doesn’t know what’s going on, but suddenly Harry’s hands are cupping his face, and Harry is kissing him.

He pulls back after a moment, though, and Louis can see the uncertainty plainly in Harry’s eyes. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, his breathing shallow, and Louis knows that if he was sensible, he’d turn around and get in his car, get away as fast as he could. If he was sensible, he’d get home and block Harry’s number and never think about him again.

But he’s never been sensible.

Louis braces his hands against the counter as he leans up, pressing his lips against Harry’s. Harry’s hands go lax against his cheeks for a moment, surprised, but then he’s kissing back enthusiastically, his eyes fluttering closed as he resumes his gentle grip on Louis’ face, his thumb stroking at Louis’ cheekbone.

Louis tilts his face a little and parts his lips, pressing closer until his tongue meets Harry’s, and slips his hands up to tangle in Harry’s curls, tugging lightly. He will _not_ be outdone by a seventeen year old.

Harry moans into the kiss, and the sound goes straight to Louis’ crotch, so he tugs on Harry’s hair again and he feels Harry’s grip on his face tighten a little.

He pulls back from the kiss, almost going right back in when he sees how flushed Harry’s face is. Harry blinks at the loss of contact and tilts his head forward, chasing Louis’ lips.

“Come here,” Louis breathes lowly, trying to get his breath back. He turns around; relieved not to have the marble edge of the counter digging into his hips anymore, but then Harry is pressed up against his front.

Louis has barely wrapped his arms around Harry’s neck before Harry is kissing him again, hot and desperate. Louis bites down hard on his bottom lip and Harry whines, fucking _whines_ , against Louis’ lips, pressing his hard length against Louis’ thigh.

It’s Harry who pulls back this time and by the time Louis’ eyes flutter open, Harry is already fiddling with the fly of Louis’ jeans.

“Harry,” Louis says softly, reaching out a hand to steady both of Harry’s. Harry looks up at him questioningly. “Are you sure you want to do this?” He asks, because Harry is seventeen (although the hardness that was pressed against his thigh just moments ago couldn’t possibly belong to a seventeen year old).

Harry nods eagerly, his lips swollen as he looks down at his hands, suddenly shy. “I’ve been wanting to do this ever since I made you drop your groceries,” He murmurs softly, so softly that Louis almost doesn’t catch it, and Louis surges forward to kiss him again, his stomach twisting in something akin to need.

Harry returns the kiss for a few moments, letting Louis nibble lightly at his lip, before he finally gets Louis’ fly right down, and he breaks the kiss and sinks down to his knees. His eyes don’t leave Louis’ for a moment as he lowers his jeans and boxers to just below his arse.

Louis hisses, the chill that hangs in the room hitting his cock as it springs up from the confinement of his boxers which are already damp with precum.

Harry’s eyes widen for a moment, and he sits up a little on his knees, his jaw falling slack and his lips forming a small ‘o’ shape. Louis’ mind is slightly hazy from arousal and he has to rack his brains to actually think of what to say.

“Are you alright?” He questions after a few moments of Harry’s gaze not budging from his cock, reaching down and gently slipping two fingers under Harry’s chin and tilting it up until Harry is looking him in the eye.

Harry nods hesitantly, but doesn’t say anything and as much as Louis wants to tell him to just _get on with it_ , he doesn’t.

It comes to him after a few moments and blinks, trying to clear his mind a little. “Harry, you have done this before, haven’t you?” Louis inquired softly.

He gets no response.  
“Harry?” Louis coaxes and this time Harry shakes his head haltingly.

He’s seventeen; so really, Louis should have expected this, but the fact that Harry has never actually sucked a guy off before hits him surprisingly hard.

“Baby,” He coos, brushing his thumb over Harry’s lips, feather light. They’re still obscenely kiss-swollen and god, Louis _wants_ him.

Harry parts his lips a little, as if inviting Louis, and Louis slips just the tip of his thumb inside the wet warmth.

Harry closes his mouth around it, flicking his tongue against the digit. It’s enough of a confirmation for Louis, and he withdraws his thumb from between Harry’s lips with a slick pop, slipping his hand up to the back of his head. He absolutely _adores_ the high keen that falls from between Harry’s parted lips as he grabs a handful of his curls and then slowly guides Harry’s mouth onto his cock.

Once he feels the wet heat envelope the tip, he bites back a groan and keeps his fingers tangled in Harry’s curls, not allowing his grip to loosen, even as Harry’s tongue flicks lightly at his slit, where beads of precum have gathered.

Harry takes him a little deeper then and Louis presses his hips back against the cool edge of the marble countertop, trying his best not to buck his hips forward. He hasn’t been sucked off in far too long, and just the feeling of wet heat around his cock makes a burning heat coil low in his stomach.

Louis’ stamina is never something he’s been particularly proud of, but as soon as Harry starts bobbing his head, Louis knows he’s not going to last much longer. He brings his other hand down to fist in Harry’s curls as well, Harry’s breathy moans each time he tugs on them muffled by Louis’ cock.

Harry pulls off for a moment, panting harshly, and it’s then that it dawns on Louis how wrecked he looks. His hair, which is usually unruly at best, is utterly tousled, and his cheeks are flushed scarlet. Louis doesn’t even want to get started on his eyes, so instead his eyes follow the single track of saliva that spans from the corner of Harry’s lips down to the edge of his jaw.

Harry brings a hand up to cradle his jaw, a distant look on his face, and it hasn’t occurred to Louis that perhaps Harry’s jaw is starting to get sore. He’s just getting round to the whole feeling bad part (he’s never been the most empathetic person) when Harry closes his lips around Louis’ cock once more, taking him in again with renewed enthusiasm.

“Fuck,” Louis manages to utter, his hips thrusting forward slightly on their own accord and god, he’s so _close_. “Fuck, _Harry_ ,”

Harry squeezes his eyes shut and mutters something unintelligible around Louis’ cock, his lips going slightly slack. His hands, which have been fisted in the material of his t-shirt up till now, drop onto his lap. One moves to squeeze at his length through his tented jeans and jesus. Louis isn’t sure what he takes notice of first, the fact that Harry is huge or that Harry has got so hard just from sucking Louis’ dick.

He tightens his grip on Harry’s hair a little, and that’s all it takes. He hears Harry’s throaty moan as his head falls back, his mouth falling slack again. He watches Harry ride out his orgasm, rutting desperately into his hand, before he reaches down to finish himself off.

It only takes about five strokes before Louis’ hips are bucking into his hand, and there are ribbons of come spurting out all over Harry. Louis’ eyes roll up into the back of his head, intense waves of white-hot pleasure washing over him. Even as he gradually starts to regain control of himself, the waves are still washing over him albeit a little less frequently. He blinks, and everything slowly comes back into focus. The dim interior of the café, the tiny pinpricks of light scattered across the span of the night sky and... Harry.

Shit.

Louis crouched down in front of Harry, leaning back against the counter as he tugged his jeans and boxers up in one, the uncomfortable stickiness making him grimace for a few moments.

There are spatters of white painted across Harry’s face, dripping from his forehead and adorning his eyelashes.

“Babe,” Louis murmurs, reaching up blindly onto the counter for the box of tissues he remembers seeing earlier. “Is everything alright? I’m sorry, I should’ve warned you.”

Harry nods, though his eyes do look a little vacant. When he speaks, his throat is definitely more than a little hoarse. “I’m, yeah,” He pauses to take a deep breath in, and then nods, clearing his throat slightly. “I’m good.”

Louis inwardly breathes a sigh of relief. He feels his hand come into contact the cardboard rectangle of the box of tissues, and he lifts it down into his lap, his eyes dropping down so he can pull a couple of tissues out.

He glances back at Harry and leans in so he can start wiping his face off. He can see Harry wants to say something, so he holds his tongue, waiting his turn as he dabs at Harry’s cheek lightly.

“God, that was – um,” Harry’s clearly still a little out of it, but he shifts a little and makes a face which Louis presumes is because of the rapidly cooling stickiness in his boxers. He can definitely relate.

“Good?” Louis’ gaze snaps up to him hopefully as finishes off wiping at Harry’s face with a fresh tissue. “Okay?” He supplies, crumpling up the tissue and collecting up the mess of sticky tissues that he’d dropped on the floor. “Terrible? Talk to me, Harry.”

“Awful,” Harry tells him, and Louis glances quickly up at him in alarm, but then he hears Harry giggle. _Fuck him_.

The clock hanging on the wall suddenly catches Louis’ eye, and despite the fact that it’s totally pretentious and has Roman numerals instead of actual numbers (Louis would bet any amount of money that Harry had picked it out) he can still see that it’s half past ten.

“Shit,” He mutters under his breath, before slowly getting up, a little unstable on his feet. His head still feels a light, too, but he offers Harry a hand as he informs him, “Harry, it’s half ten.”

Harry wobbles slightly as he gets up, and Louis immediately reaches out to steady him. Harry leans forward to kiss him again as soon as he’s upright and Louis returns the kiss for a few moments, slipping his arms around Harry’s waist. Harry pouts when he pulls back, but Louis nods pointedly at the clock and Harry sighs resignedly, reaching into the pocket of his jeans to find the keys for the café.

\----------

The ride back is comfortably silent, Louis turning the radio on and letting a few stupid pop songs play as Harry leans his head back against the seat’s headrest, his eyes closed. Louis isn't sure if he’s asleep or awake, except for when Harry’s fingers reach out to entwine with his on the gear shift, and Louis can’t keep the smile off his face, even after he’s dropped Harry off.

\----------

Later that night, Louis is lazily getting himself off when he realises that anyone could have seen what he and Harry were doing through the glass shopfront, and spills into his fist almost instantly.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Harry is ignoring Louis. 

Louis knows this because Harry has been online on Whatsapp approximately twenty two times in the last four days and at no point has he replied to any of Louis’ messages. Ah, the wonders of modern technology. 

(It’s not that Louis is moping, but, well, he is). 

 

-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐ 

 

By the time a week has passed, Zayn has somehow managed to catch on and wanders into the living room just as Louis morosely stuffs his phone back into the pocket of his sweats, the mug of tea next to him long forgotten. 

“Uni today, Lou?” Zayn ventures, perching on the arm of the sofa. Louis glares at him and he raises his hands in defense. 

“It’s been a _week_.” Louis exclaims, slapping Zayn’s hand away as Zayn tries to steal the mug of tea that he’d made himself earlier. If only he could forget about Harry as easily as he had about that tea. 

“Exactly, so you need to get back to classes. They keep asking me where the fuck you are, and I’m pretty sure nobody’s ever had a week‐long migraine before.” Zayn retracts his hand but doesn’t take his eyes off Louis, and Louis scowls moodily at him, wrapping his hands around the tepid mug. 

“Tell them I’m in hospital or something.” Louis mutters, before perking up visibly and sitting up a little straighter. “Ooh, maybe Harry will feel so bad he’ll come to visit me!” He suggests brightly, and why the fuck is Zayn shaking his head like that when this is a good idea. 

Zayn sighs heavily, getting to his feet and fixing Louis with a look. Or to be more precise, The Look.   
The one Louis gets whenever he is (according to Zayn, at least) being stupid. Louis is sure that when Thoreau was alive, he was subjected to the same treatment. He just hopes people realise he is a genius _before_ he dies, rather than afterwards. 

“He’s seventeen.” Zayn states, and from the corner of his eye, Louis can see him glance heavenwards for a moment. “ _Seventeen_ , Louis.” 

Louis nods, quite missing the point. “Seventeen and not texting me back.” He throws his head back against the back of the sofa with an exaggerated groan, pressing his hand against his forehead. Zayn shakes his head, reaching for his bag that he’d abandoned next to the sofa the other day.   
“The heart dies a slow death,” Louis starts, clutching at his heart theatrically and sitting up so fast that Zayn actually looks concerned for a brief, fleeting moment. “Shedding each hope like leaves until one day – ” “Shut up, drama student.” Zayn interjects, rolling his eyes as he shrugs his backpack onto his back.   
“Finish that tea and go and get some clothes on, we can stop for breakfast on the way to Uni.” 

 

-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐ 

 

“I am not a pushover.” Louis mutters under his breath, but Zayn, being Zayn, looks over at him and fixes him with a knowing look. 

“Maybe if you say that to yourself enough times, it’ll start to come true.” He rallies, and Louis gazes over at him dolefully while sipping at what’s probably the only proper cup of tea he’s had all week. 

“But Zayn, seriously, what the fuck did I _do_?” Louis wails as he takes a large gulp of his tea, and fuck Zayn if he tells him to stop slurping it, he is _heartbroken_ and he’s pretty sure it’s a fair exception. 

“You’ve asked me enough times already, Lou, and if I didn’t know before then I won’t know now.” Zayn tells him with what is possibly the most forced calm expression Louis has ever laid eyes on. 

Louis sighs possibly a little over-‐dramatically and knocks his head against the window loudly, muttering unintelligibly under his breath. He isn’t quite sure what he’s saying, but he figures it’s the language of heartbreak speaking. 

“If you’re going to brain yourself, please do it somewhere other than my car, yeah?” Zayn reprimands gently, reaching across to place his half-‐eaten bagel in Louis’ lap. “ _Eat_.” 

-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐ 

The next few days go by in similar fashion (although Zayn doesn’t donate him any more bagels, half eaten or otherwise) which is vaguely upsetting and Louis begins to question what life was like before Harry managed to walk into him that day at the park. He can’t think of much. 

He’s not really quite sure what he’s doing when he chucks his coat on one evening and walks out into the slight drizzle. He’s just going for a walk, he tells himself, and he really is, until he ends up standing on the pavement across from the cafe that Harry works at. 

He can see an unfamiliar girl stood at the counter serving people, and – oh, he realises, his breath hitching in his throat. That’s the very same counter that Harry pressed him up against and kissed him until he was breathless. And then Louis had come all over his face. 

Louis hears the little bell above the door ring to signify his entrance – he’s positive Harry must have singlehandedly picked out the interiors for this cafe – and sees the girl manning the counter look over at him. The cafe is relatively full today, so he makes his way over to stand in the queue, his eyes searching the perimeter of the counter’s edge for the singe mark Harry had pointed out to him before, well... 

“Hi,” He greets the girl, hoping that she somehow morphs into Harry, and all the people in the cafe magically disappear. “Nice burn mark, there.” He adds conversationally, gesturing with his hand. The girl’s face breaks into a smile, and for some reason, she looks slightly familiar. Louis’ eyes drop down to her nametag: _Gemma_. 

Why on earth does everyone working in this place have stupid smiley faces next to their names? Louis worked in a coffee shop for all of three months when he was in high school and he barely managed to muster up a real smile, let alone start drawing them on his nametag. 

“Adds to the character.” She quips, reaching up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. “Y’know, the whole _someone tried to set this café on fire_ scene is totally what we’re going for.” 

Louis feigns surprise. “Someone tried to set it on fire? Your coffee can’t be that bad.” 

“You’d be surprised.” She laughs, and Louis really can’t place why he feels like he’s seen her around before. He puts it down to Doncaster being extraordinarily small and easy to run into people in… He’s sure Harry would back him up. 

“How’d it happen?” Louis presses, glancing up at the coffee menu for a second. He still can’t make much sense of it, other than the fact that they offer Decaf – since he’s become a student, he’s decided that coffee is only worth drinking if it has caffeine in. 

“I’d love to stay and chat, but… In case you haven’t noticed, there are,” Gemma looks past his shoulder for a few moments, before her eyes focus back on his face again, “Four people behind you who may actually want coffee.” 

“Alright, alright.” Louis dismisses, pulling his wallet out of the pocket of his jeans. He just wants to know how Harry set the damn counter on fire. “Um, whatever that long one is that begins with C.” 

She turns around to prepare it, and Louis glances around the café. It’s a little quaint, the walls are wood paneled and the floor is made up of shiny wooden boards. There are various pictures on the walls that Louis doesn’t even want to try and understand. One catches his eye, though, a cacophony of iridescent colours – swirling reds, bright yellows and deep oranges intermixed with eachother. Seriously. _Harry_. 

“’S Harry’s favourite.” Louis hears, and then Gemma is passing him a takeaway cup, the heat radiating off it before it even touches his hand. “The one you’re looking at.” 

“How do you k–” Louis begins, but he’s cut off. 

“Next please!” Gemma interjects, flashing him a wicked grin as he looks at her in bewilderment.   
_Christ_. Does every employee in this damn café know? 

 

-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐ 

 

Louis runs into Niall completely by accident as he’s making his way back to the flat. He narrowly avoids spilling his coffee, but he can’t bring himself to actually feel anything more than mild annoyance towards the blond teen in front of him. “Hey, Louis,” Niall says, his hands shoved deep into the pocket of his jeans. 

Louis smiles at him in way of greeting, taking a long sip of his coffee. Apparently it’s run into Harry’s acquaintances day. Lucky him. 

“I was just heading to work,” Niall informs him. “I see you’ve already been?” He says in a questioning tone, although it isn’t much of a question. He opens his mouth as if to say something and then snaps it closed again, looking slightly anguished. 

“Yeah, I, um – needed a coffee.” Louis bluffs completely unconvincingly. Surely, if they actually did _drama_ on their drama course, then he wouldn’t have this problem. 

“As do most of our customers.” Niall jokes, and Louis smiles wanly. 

There isn’t even an elephant in the room anymore. There’s a fucking blue whale, which Louis paid just about enough attention to in Biology to know that they’re the largest animals in the world. 

“So, how’s Harry been?” Louis blurts out without meaning to, and _there_. There it is. 

“He’s been good.” Niall says quickly. Almost too quickly. “Good, uh, busy… A levels certainly keep you busy, don’t they?” 

Louis is about to answer, when Niall speaks again. “Look, it’s – ” He pauses, glancing down at his feet. “Harry’s just… He doesn’t really want, like,” 

Louis nods, because he’s heard all he needed to hear. He smiles tightly at Niall and pushes past him, clenching his hands tightly into fists in his coat pockets. Honestly, he’s only met Harry a handful of times. Besides, Harry made him drop his shopping – that had probably been a sign that under no circumstances was he _the one_. 

So, why the fuck is Louis so affected by this? 

 

-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐ 

 

Louis prides himself greatly on barely ever having to deal with rejection – so he really isn’t used to whatever the fuck is going on right now. Usually, people at least tell him what’s wrong. Hell, he’d take Harry flat out calling him ugly or something rather than being left with no idea what he did wrong. 

It could’ve been the Spiderman boxers, but honestly, unless Harry prefers DC to Marvel, then it shouldn’t be much of a problem (and Louis has always liked to think that whatever Deity there is, if any, will steer him away from DC fans whenever possible). 

Maybe Louis texts weird. Maybe he doesn’t use enough emojis. Maybe he uses too many. 

Maybe – _wait_. 

That is _definitely_ his phone ringing. 

Louis lunges for it, his stomach plummeting right down to his feet when he sees the caller ID. 

It’s 12:41 AM and Harry has, effectively, already managed to excommunicate him. Or he’s just a huge sadist and is calling Louis to try and piss him off. 

Louis is clearly a masochist, though, because he picks up. 

“Louis,” He hears, and just hearing Harry say his fucking _name_ makes whatever retort Louis had on the tip of his tongue disappear. 

“Yeah?” He answers, and _wow_. Of all the things he could say. 

_Where the fuck have you been_ , he wants to ask, and _where did I go wrong?_

There’s silence on the other end of the line for a moment, and then Louis hears Harry draw in a small breath. “I did something bad.” Harry tells him, and Louis nods before he realises Harry can’t actually see him. 

“What?” Louis presses, fiddling with a loose thread on his bedspread as he listens intensely, hearing Harry’s breath each time it hitches. “What’ve you done?” 

Harry doesn’t answer, and Louis doesn’t try to push him any further. He knows Harry’ll tell him if it’s of any importance at all. 

“I, um,” Harry finally says, and his voice sounds surprisingly high pitched. “They let me close up the café again, and I don’t know, I found a lighter in the drawer.” 

“So?” Louis prompts him, and he really has no idea what to expect. There are countless things Harry could have done with that lighter. He was carrying a fucking _fire lighter_ the first time Louis met him. 

“Well, I managed to do a little more than just singe the counter this time,” Harry says sheepishly, and Louis tightens his grip on his phone. Harry gives him the silent treatment for days, and then _this._

“So, you’re calling me for the first time in about two weeks because you’re under the impression I have some sort of magic counter-‐fixing power?” Louis scoffs incredulously. 

Harry is quiet on the other line for a second, then he speaks again. “Not a _magic_ power,” He begins, “But, um, some sort of power at least - like, power tools?” 

Louis is already pulling on his shoes by the time Harry finally asks “So, will you come?” But he gets immense pleasure from telling Harry, “You’ll have to wait and see, won’t you?” See, he has the upper hand _sometimes_. 

 

-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐

 

Harry is sat cross legged on the floor of the coffee shop when Louis walks in, his face bathed in the dim glow of the moon streaking in through the window. He looks almost ethereal, and Louis feels his heart clench in his chest a little. 

He doesn’t want to say anything for a moment or two, although since the bell rang out loudly when he walked in, Harry clearly knows he’s stood there. 

“Hi,” Harry finally says, opening his eyes, and Louis can see a phone lying on the floor next to his foot. The phone that he hasn’t been texting Louis back from. 

Louis’ reply gets stuck in his throat, because Harry looks so _beautiful_ , but Harry isn’t his to look at. 

“You wanted me?” He manages finally, albeit a little croakily. The double meaning hits him even as he says the words and he swallows audibly. 

Harry nods and slips his phone into his pocket before scrambling to his feet. Louis’ thoughts momentarily drift to Bambi, except Bambi probably doesn’t go around setting things on fire and and then making Louis fix them. 

“I have no idea what I’m supposed to do about this,” Harry steps around to the corner of the counter to show Louis, and Louis quirks an eyebrow because this is definitely a good deal more than one singe mark. 

“Well, how do you expect me to?” Louis asks, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. “Can’t you just tell the boss there was an accident or something?” 

Harry looks at him dubiously. “Do you think the boss would believe me?” 

Louis shrugs. “ _Was_ it an accident, Harry?” 

Louis can see Harry deliberating for a few moments. “Kind of.” He finally answers, but he won’t meet Louis’ eyes. 

“ _Harry._ ” Louis chides. 

“I was only going to do a little bit. I got distracted by the fire, though.” Harry admits, but he still won’t look up at Louis. 

“Look,” Louis says, and ah, this is something he’s a little more used to having. The upper hand. “We can clean this up, but you have to tell him that you did this by accident. You dropped a candle or something, yeah?” 

Harry nods dumbly, and there’s so much Louis wants to say, wants to ask him but he holds his tongue. 

“So, go and find the cleaning stuff and some wood polish.” Louis says to him, and he expects Harry to say _something,_ but Harry just _goes._

Louis doesn’t get off on Harry being submissive, but maybe he does. Just a tiny bit. 

 

-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐ 

 

They settle into a silence as they’re cleaning, and Louis would _love_ to call it comfortable, but it really isn’t. 

Louis keeps his head down and focuses on polishing the countertop as if the polish is going to somehow cover up the fact that there is sizeable chunk of the counter missing. The only thing the polish actually seems to be doing is permeating his nostrils with that over-‐strong chemical smell. 

He hums to himself under his breath, but it’s so tense that eventually his humming dissipates into nothing. 

“You want to know, don’t you?” Harry asks softly, and Louis nods, not daring to say anything. He doesn’t know what Harry’s referring to, but an explanation of any sort would be good right about now. 

“I just…” Harry flounders, clearly searching for the right words. “I just like fire.” He says helplessly, and although Louis can’t see him, he feels a little twinge of something in his chest at Harry’s tone. 

Louis waits patiently for Harry to go on, the room completely silent bar the sound of them breathing, and the occasional car driving past. 

“And that’s all I can tell you, Louis,” Harry says haltingly, but Louis can hear the slight tremor in his voice. “It’s all I can tell you, because it’s all I know myself.” 

Louis glances up from the countertop hesitantly, but he inhales sharply in surprise, because Harry is _right there_. 

He reaches out and covers one of Harry’s hands, fisted on the edge of the counter, with one of his. Actually, ‘covers’ is definitely an exaggeration– Harry’s hands are probably twice the size of his. 

“And I like _you_ , and I don’t care what else you like, Harry.” Louis ventures tentatively, stroking his thumb lightly across Harry’s knuckles to find that his hands are shaking. “I like _you,_ ” He repeats a little louder. 

Harry’s eyes are burning into his and Louis feels heated all over. He brushes his fingers gingerly down the back of Harry’s hand and then tentatively up Harry’s arm, feeling goosebumps spring up wherever he touches him. 

“And, _god_ , Harry, can I kiss you?” He breathes. Harry nods desperately. 

And just like that, they’re kissing. It’s nothing like their first kiss, it’s all clashing teeth and Louis’ hands on Harry’s back trying to pull him closer and so, so messy. 

It’s like neither of them wants to break the kiss, but eventually Harry pulls back, panting harshly and resting his forehead against Louis’. Louis lets him catch his breath, closing his eyes briefly. It’s like everything is spinning and Harry is the only one who can keep him grounded. Louis’ hands slide around to Harry’s chest, and he pushes Harry backwards until he feels his back hit a flat surface, then their lips are on eachother’s again. It’s frantic, passionate and everything Louis has ever wanted. Harry’s hands paw desperately at the material of Louis’ shirt and Louis tugs it up over his head, hearing it hit the ground but not finding it in himself to care where it’s landed. For all he cares right now the building could be on fire.   
He slips his hands under Harry’s shirt and tries to push it up so he can feel Harry’s flesh on his, but Harry squirms a little against him and giggles breathlessly. _Of course_ he’s ticklish. 

They break the kiss so Harry can pull at the hem of his shirt, slowly exposing his flesh to Louis, inch by inch. It’s tantalising, and Louis wants to follow the trail with his tongue, right up over Harry’s chest. 

He pants hotly against Harry’s lips as Harry loops his arms around his neck and pulls him back in, kissing him hard. Harry’s hands run up and down his bare back, and Louis pushes him right back, hearing Harry hiss as his heated back meets cool glass. He’s pressing him back against the large glass window at the front of the shop, and he can see right over Harry’s shoulder into the darkened street behind him. If anyone were to walk past right now, they’d see exactly what was going on. 

…But Louis is the only one who gets to have him like this. Or at least, he hopes so. 

He pulls back to just _look_ at Harry, take him in. He’s never really appreciated beauty, he isn’t the type to stop and marvel at a particular type of flower or the prismatic curve of a rainbow in the sky on a rainy day. He doesn’t wake up early just to see the sunrise or gaze in wonder at the frost patterns left on his car window in the winter. 

But his breath catches in his throat seeing Harry like this. 

He looks even paler in the moonlight, his alabaster chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. He’s got the full lips of a Botticelli angel, his sweeping eyelashes casting shadows over his cheeks in the dim light. It hits Louis briefly that he might actually _be_ an angel, but that theory dispels pretty rapidly as Harry leans forward again to press his lips against Louis’. No angel could kiss like _that._

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispers against his lips, brushing his nose gently against Louis’. “I – I should’ve told you, I was too scared and–” 

“Shhh.” Louis admonishes, nipping gently at Harry’s kiss-‐swollen lower lip. Harry whimpers under his breath and his eyes fall closed again, but Louis brings his hand up to cup Harry’s cheek. He can’t tell if Harry’s skin is burning under his touch or if it’s his own skin that’s burning, but there’s so much _heat_. 

“Open your eyes,” Louis whispers after a second, not daring to raise his voice any louder. Harry doesn’t move, apart from to lean his cheek into Louis’ hand, chasing his touch. “Look at me, baby.” 

Harry’s eyes flutter open, and Louis’ heart stutters for a second when he sees that they’re glazed with tears. 

“Look at you, Louis,” Harry murmurs, voice hushed. “ _God,_ you’re twenty one and you’re in Uni and you’re so fucking gorgeous, and I’m–” “Beautiful.” Louis breathes. He doesn’t know how Harry could consider himself anything else. “You’re incredible, Harry,” 

Harry reaches for Louis’ other hand and holds it tight, twining their fingers together. “I’m _stupid_ , Lou. I do reckless things like this.” 

Louis shakes his head, squeezing Harry’s hand gently. “Everyone does reckless things sometimes. Yours just happen to involve fire.” He pauses for a moment, his grip on Harry’s hand loosening momentarily. “And ignoring me.” 

“And ignoring you.” Harry repeats, nodding sagely. Then he looks down at Louis ruefully. “ _Heeeey,_ I did apologise.” 

Louis chuckles under his breath, dropping Harry’s hand and tracing his fingers up his bare arm slowly. “And who am I to hold that against you?” 

“I know what else you can hold against me.” Harry says almost hopefully, waggling his eyebrows suggestively at Louis. 

“You’re awful!” Louis exclaims, giving Harry’s upper arm a light slap, the sound amplified, echoing through the empty coffee shop. 

Harry just giggles. “Am I really awful?” He asks, and Louis has _yes, you are_ on the tip of his tongue, when Harry leans in and kisses him. 

Louis guesses he isn’t so bad, really. 

The way he tugs on Louis’ lower lip lightly with his teeth isn’t _terrible_ , and Louis _definitely_ doesn’t mind the way Harry’s fingers slip up into his hair. 

But. “Harry,” Louis says gently as he pulls back. “It’s two in the morning, love.” 

Harry blinks owlishly at him, before leaning in to kiss him again. 

Louis steps back and although Harry the way Harry leans into him, chasing his lips, almost sways him, Louis puts his hands on Harry’s shoulders very lightly and pushes him back. 

Harry looks a little put out. “Is this like Cinderella? Are you not allowed to kiss me past a certain time?” He interrogates, and Louis can’t help but laugh which only seems to infuriate Harry further. 

Harry looks more like an angry kitten than he does menacing, but nevertheless, Louis quickly raises his hands in defence. “It’s a school night, Harry.” He says. 

Harry’s posture slackens a little, and Louis’ arms drop back to his sides. “Think it’s time we get you home, yeah?” He says gently, and Harry nods. 

 

-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐ 

 

They’re in Louis’ car on the way back to Harry’s, Louis’ arm resting lightly on the back of Harry’s seat when Harry says it. 

“I think I’m a pyro, Louis.” He says tentatively, as if he’s testing the word out. 

Louis glances over at him incredulously as he pulls up at a red light. How has Harry only _just_ coined onto this? 

Louis pressed his lips together in amusement, because Harry carries a firelighter around town with him and attempts to set parts of his workplace on fire, but hasn’t realised that he’s a fucking pyro? 

“What?” Harry asks, glancing over at him. “What’s so funny?” 

The light fades to amber, then to green, and Louis revs the engine a little louder than usual as he drives off (not that he’s showing off for Harry, or anything like that). “You’re a pyro, Harry.” He announces, and Harry gapes at him. 

“Louis, I’m having a revelation and you’re making Harry Potter references?” He says after a moment, evidently disgruntled. 

Louis nods, leaning over for a second and kissing Harry right on his disgruntled mouth. 

Harry cracks a smile, turning his head away towards the window so Louis can’t see, but Louis catches a quick glimpse of it and his chest tightens for the briefest of moments. 

“Stop kissing me, Hagrid,” Harry giggles gleefully, leaning back in his seat as he glances back towards Louis. 

_Fuck him._

 

-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐ 

 

Once Louis drops Harry off and gets back to the flat, he plans to go straight to sleep. He has to be up in four hours, for god’s sake. 

Instead, he sits down at the kitchen table and stares down at his phone, trying to put a damper on any nerves he’s feeling. 

What if this is just like last time? What if Harry doesn’t want anything to do with him? 

It’s definitely a possibility, but it’s not a possibility he wants to consider. 

 

All his anxiety melts away, though, when his phone vibrates a couple of minutes later, buzzing obnoxiously against the table until Louis picks it up. 

Harry: [02:27] _I’m definitely a pyro_.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning: louis' cooking skills

Louis  is  moderately  frazzled. 

“Invite  Harry  over  for  dinner,”  Zayn  had  suggested  a  couple  of  days  ago  and  Louis,  being  the  idiot  he  was,  had  actually  thought  it  was  a  good  idea  and  called  Harry  immediately  to  tell  him. 

The  problem  isn’t  in  Zayn’s  idea,  really,  Louis  has  to  give  him  credit  for  that.  The  problem  is  that  past  microwave  meals,  pot  noodles  and  (usually  burnt)  toast,  Louis  can’t  cook. 

He  _really_   wishes  that  was  an  exaggeration  but  last  time  he  tried  to  make  rice  he’d  ended  up  flooding  the  microwave  with  water.  To  make  matters  worse,  the  rice  hadn’t  even  tasted  _nice_. 

“What  the  fuck  am  I  supposed  to  do,  Z?  It’s  tomorrow!”  he  wails  in  despair,  slumping  down  into  one  of  the  chairs  in  the  kitchen.  “I  don’t  even  know  what  half  the  things  we  have  in  here  _do_.” 

Zayn  chuckles  from  where  he  stands  leaning  against  the  fridge,  turning  a  colander  over  in  his  hands.  “I’m  sure  Harry  wouldn’t  say  no  to,  like,  beans  on  toast.  Everybody  likes  beans  on  toast.” 

Louis  resists  the  urge  to  lob  the  potato  masher  that  he's  holding  at  him.   

“Or,  like,  order  in?”  Zayn  continues,  unperturbed.  Louis  is  convinced  Zayn  would  find  him  a  little  more  threatening  if  he  wasn’t  5’8  and  wearing  a  ratty  old  pair  of  sweats.   

“I  can’t  cancel,  can  I?”  Louis  asks,  before  throwing  the  potato  masher  down  on  the  counter  and  huffing  in  exasperation  when  he  sees  Zayn  shake  his  head.   

“Look,  just  make  him  something.  Or  at  least  try,  I’m  sure  he  won’t  complain  if  you  do  your  best.”  Zayn  advises,  turning  around  to  put  the  colander  back  in  the  cupboard.  Louis  is  pretty  sure  he’s  never  opened  that  cupboard  in  his  life.   

Nodding  in  resignation,  Louis  sighs.  “I  guess.  Besides  it’s  not  as  if  he’ll  complain  if  I  set  the  flat  on  fire  by  accident,  anyway.” 

Zayn  raises  an  eyebrow.  “What  do  you  mean?”  he  quizzes,  resuming  his  previous  position  against  the  fridge.   

“He,  uh.”  Louis  pauses  for  a  moment,  not  quite  sure  how  to  best  word  it.  “Likes  fire.  Direct  quote.” 

On  second  thought, _likes_   fire  is  probably  an  understatement.   

“Right.”  Zayn  nods,  his  eyes  darting  up  to  the  ceiling  for  a  brief  moment  before  he  looks  back  at  Louis.  “He  did  mention  a  lighter  or  something  when  I  met  him.” 

“That’s  Harry.”  Louis  says  by  way  of  explanation.  He’s  not  sure  what  more  he  can  say,  really. 

 

  -‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐ 

 

Louis  has  had  many  a  sleepless  night  for  more  reasons  than  he’d  like  to  count  –  once,  they  were  showing  an  all  night  Lord  of  The  Rings  marathon  on  Sky  Movies  and  Orlando  Bloom  _really_   looked  good  as  an  elf.  Then  there  was  that  time  that  he’d  dedicated  a  whole  night  to  hunting  down  every  Jake  Bass  video  on  the  internet  (he’d  fallen  asleep  around  6am  at  number  14  and  had  been  too  sore  to  wank  for  about  a  week  afterwards)  and  countless  times  finishing  off  essays  due  the  next  day  that  he  really  should’ve  done  weeks  ago. 

He’s  never  had  one  because  of  nerves,  though. 

Or,  really,  he’s  never  let  himself.  He  didn’t  worry  about  grades  when  he  was  back  in  school,  because  it  wasn’t  as  if  he  was  planning  to  get  into  Oxford  or  anything.  Just  the  local  Uni.  He  isn’t  going  to  let  them  bother  him  now  either,  at  least  until  his  final  exams  later  this  year.  He  doesn’t  worry  about  boys,  because  for  each  one  that  doesn’t  call  him  back,  there  are  a  hundred  more  out  there  with  even  bigger  cocks  and  abs  that  are  twice  as  defined. 

That’s  not  what  it’s  about  with  Harry,  though,  and  maybe  that’s  why  he’s  up  at  near  enough  5am  pacing  across  his  bedroom.  If  Zayn  were  awake,  he’d  probably  jokingly  tell  Louis  that  he  was  going  to  wear  a  hole  in  the  carpet.  In  fact,  Louis  sort  of  wishes  Zayn  was.  He’s  worried  he  may  be  going  mad. 

The  thing  is,  he’s  never  actually  been  _into_   someone.  Like,  he’s  been  in  relationships  before,  and  he’s  had  a  lot  of  meaningless  fucks  in  the  back  of  clubs  with  people  whose  names  he’d  never  even  bothered  to  find  out,  but  even  in  his  long-‐term  relationships,  he  can’t  say  he’s  ever  felt  anything  towards  any  of  those  people  other  than  mild  lust  and  possibly  moderate  infatuation. 

 

-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐ 

 

_Looking  forward  to  tonight!_   Harry  texts  him  the  following  morning,  and  Louis  doesn’t  have  the  heart  to  reply  for  at  least  ten  minutes. 

_Can  we  just  order  a  Chinese  or  something?_   He  types  in  reply,  but  backspaces  it  all  a  moment  later.  He’s  pretty  sure  anything  from  the  Chinese  would  taste  millions  of  times  better  than  anything  he’s  going  to  be  able  to  cook. 

He  sighs  dejectedly  before  typing  out  _Me  too.  Can’t  wait  to  see  you!_ As  he  hits  send,  he  wonders  vaguely  if  maybe  Harry’s  love  of  burning  things  extends  to  _burnt_   things,  which  there  is  a  large  possibility  tonight’s  dinner  is  going  to  end  up  being. 

 

-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐ 

 

Louis  has  so  far  discovered  that  cracking  eggs  isn’t  as  easy  as  it  looks,  neither  is  peeling  potatoes,  and  that  the  reason  he’s  been  missing  one  of  his  black  Converse  for  months  is  because  someone  managed  to  wedge  it  behind  the  bread  bin.  What  can  he  say,  his  kitchen’s  hygiene  is  questionable  at  best.   

After  frantically  googling  ‘ _romantic  meal  ideas_ ’  and  resignedly  realising  that  roasted  lamb  with  balsamic  reduction  is  A.)  Not  on  the  cards  for  tonight  and  B.)  Probably  impossible  to  make  in  the  first  place  since  he  isn’t  Jamie  Oliver,  Louis  decides  that  his  safest  bet  is  to  go  with  spaghetti..   

So,  spaghetti  it  is.  He  manages  to  follow  the  recipe  moderately  well,  the  spaghetti  only  clumps  a  little  bit  and  the  sauce  cooks  for  just  about  long  enough  (although  admittedly,  he  does  manage  to  splatter  some  down  his  shirt).   

Zayn  comes  in  from  whatever  mysterious  Zayn  things  he  likes  to  get  up  to  in  his  free  time  and  hitches  himself  up  on  the  counter,  resting  his  chin  on  one  of  his  knees  and  picking  at  his  nails.  “Smells  good,”  he  tells  Louis,  sniffing  appreciatively.   

Louis  reaches  over  to  turn  the  heat  down  slightly  so  the  sauce  can  keep  simmering.  “It  had  better.  There  are  blood,  sweat  and  tears  in  this.  _My_   blood,  sweat  and  tears.” 

“Don’t  say  that  to  Harry,”  Zayn  chides,  raising  a  hand  to  his  mouth  so  he  can  gnaw  on  a  hangnail.  “He  might  think  you’re  serious.” 

“Who  says  I’m  not?”  Louis  thrusts  the  wooden  spoon  he’s  using  to  stir  the  sauce  at  Zayn.  “The  sauce  looks  sort  of  red,  it’s  pretty  believable.” 

Zayn  hops  down  from  the  counter  and  snags  a  piece  of  bread  from  the  bread  bin,  popping  it  into  the  toaster.  “Unless  he’s  some  sort  of  vampire,  I  doubt  he’ll  appreciate  you  mentioning  blood  and  food  in  the  same  sentence  at  all.” 

Louis  can’t  help  but  chuckle  at  the  idea  of  Harry  being  a  vampire.  Other  than  the  whole  _pale_   _and_   _tall_   thing  he  has  going  on,  Louis  can’t  imagine  Harry  has  much  else  in  common  with  one.   

Zayn  continues  before  Louis  can  tell  him  that  Harry  is  the  most  unlikely  person  he  knows  to  be  going  out  at  night  and  sucking  people’s  blood  (or  sparkling,  for  that  matter).  “I’ll  be  out  tonight,  anyway,  because  I  don’t  really  feel  like  walking  in  on  you,  like,  fucking  the  kid  or  something.”  “Do  you  really  think  I’d  fuck  on  the  first  date?  I’m  wounded.”  Louis  puts  a  hand  on  his  heart,  adopting  what  he  hopes  is  an  adequately  hurt  expression.   

“Well,  if  I  was  Harry,  I’d  hope  –”  Zayn  starts,  but  his  phone  buzzes  loudly  against  the  counter,  and  he  glances  down  at  it,  before  holding  a  finger  up  at  Louis  and  lifting  the  phone    to  his  ear.  “You’re  outside  already?  Yeah,  I’m  on  my  way  down  then.” 

Louis  lets  Zayn  squeeze  past  him  to  the  door,  turning  his  attention  back  to  the  pan  of  sauce  bubbling  on  the  stove.  Harry  said  he’d  come  at  six,  and  according  to  the  quick  glance  he’d  got  at  Zayn’s  phone  screen,  that  means  he  has  ten  minutes  to  get  ready  and  get  the  food  onto  plates.  He  hopes  Harry  isn’t  one  of  those  people  who’s  always  early. 

Luck  doesn’t  seem  to  be  on  his  side,  however  (and  neither  do  Harry’s  timekeeping  skills),  because  five  minutes  later,  the  doorbell  rings  just  as  Louis  is  pulling  his  t-‐shirt  over  his  head.  He  spritzes  himself  with  some  fancy  cologne  that  Zayn  bought  him  two  Christmases  ago  because  ‘I  would  totally  fuck  a  guy  if  he  smelled  like  this’.  (He’s  hardly  used  it  and  somehow  most  of  it  is  gone,  so  he’s  pretty  sure  Zayn  had  more  selfish  motives  in  mind  when  he  bought  it). 

The  doorbell  chimes  again,  and  Louis  rushes  out  of  his  room  and  towards  the  front  door,  trying  to  quell  the  nerves  that  make  his  mouth  feel  dry  and  his  throat  tight.  It’s  almost  foreign  to  him,  to  feel  this  way  about  someone  –  it’s  usually  the  other  person  that  does  the  whole  _feelings_   thing.  This  time,  Louis  thinks  he  probably  has  enough  feelings  for  both  of  them,  and  then  some. 

 No  sooner  has  he  swung  the  door  open  than  they’re  kissing.  Louis  isn’t  sure  either  of  them  know  who  started  kissing  who  first,  but  he  can’t  really  say  it’s  bothering  him.  He  lets  Harry  back  him  up  against  the  wall  and  fist  his  hands  in  Louis’  t-‐shirt  and  lick  into  Louis’  mouth  until  they’re  both  out  of  breath  and  Harry  is  panting,  his  face  pressed  against  Louis’  neck.   

“I’d  say  I  missed  you  but  I’m  pretty  sure  it’s  obvious.”  Harry  chuckles  breathlessly,  hands  still  clenching  the  fabric  of  Louis’  t‐shirt  tightly. 

Louis  barely  manages  to  nod  in  agreement  before  Harry’s  lips  are  on  his  with  even  more  fervour  than  previously.   

“Babe,”  Louis  manages  to  get  out  in  between  heated  kisses.  “Relax,  yeah?  We’ve  got  all  night.” 

“Yeah,  but  I  haven’t  seen  you  in  six  days,  Lou.  _Six_.”   

Louis  is  equal  parts  endeared  and  amused.  “Because  six  days  is  such  a  long  time.” 

“Is  for  me.”  Harry  mumbles,  pressing  forward  to  kiss  Louis  again.  Louis  relents  and  lets  him,  his  mind  going  pleasantly  warm  and  blank before  through  the  haze,  he  remembers  that  he  actually  cooked  Harry  food  and  he  is  damn  well  not  letting  it  go  to  waste.  Louis  dodges  Harry’s  lips  and  cranes  his  neck  up  a  little  so  he  can  whisper  in  Harry’s  ear.  “I’m  not  that  kind  of  girl.” 

“Of  course  you’re  that  kind  of  girl.  Everyone’s  that  kind  of  girl.”  Harry  finally  lets  go  of  Louis’  shirt  and  flexes.  “I’m  irresistible.” 

“You  can  say  that  if  that  makes  you  feel  better.”  Louis  teases,  and  Harry  huffs  indignantly.   

“I  jus–  What’s  that  smell?”  Harry  wrinkles  his  nose,  frowning  in  the  direction  of  the  kitchen.   

“What  do  y–”  Louis  cuts  himself  off  because  he  can  smell  it  too;  the  acrid,  bitter  smell  of  something  burning.   

“You’re  burning  something  for  me?  That’s  so  sweet,  Lou.”  The  corners  of  Harry’s  mouth  turn  up,  and  Louis  can’t  tell  if  he’s  joking  or  if  he’s  being  serious.   

Louis’  eyebrows  knit  together  in  the  middle  as  he  frowns.  “But  I  turned  the  stove  off…”  he  murmurs  calculatingly.  Then  it  hits  him.   

“Zayn!”  He  snaps,  followed  by  a  litany  of  curses. 

Harry  blinks  at  him,  and  Louis  tries  not  to  let  himself  get  distracted  by  the  length  of  Harry’s  eyelashes.  “ _Zayn_   set  something  on  fire  for  me?”  he  asks,  looking  so  adorably  perturbed  that  now  Louis  is  the  one  that  wants  to  kiss  Harry,  to  pin  him  against  the  wall  and  kiss  that  expression  right  off  his  face.   

“No,”  Louis  squeezes  out  from  between  Harry  and  the  wall  and  rushes  to  the  kitchen  where,  to  confirm  his  suspicions,  there  is  a  moderate  amount  of  black-‐grey  smoke  pouring  out  of  the  toaster.  “No,  Zayn  is  an  idiot  who  decides  to  make  toast  and  then  forgets  about  it.” 

Harry  opens  up  both  of  the  kitchen  windows  and  hitches  himself  up  on  the  counter as  Louis  unplugs  the  toaster  and  fishes  the  charred  piece  of  toast  out.   

“How  appetising.”  Harry  teases,  watching  Louis  dump  it  in  the  bin.  “I  am  appetised.” 

“That  isn’t  even  a  word,  smartass.”  Louis  tells  him,  rinsing  off  his  hands  under  the  cold  tap.   

Harry  rolls  his  eyes  for  the  briefest  of  moments,  fiddling  with  the  hem  of  his  button  down.  Because  of  course  he’d  worn  a  fucking  button  down.   

Louis  isn’t  quite  sure  how  to  announce  it,  so  he  turns  the  tap  off  and  blurts  out,  “I  cooked.”  Then  he  continues,  because  he  doesn’t  quite  know  when  to  stop  talking.  “It’s  probably  shit,  so  maybe  we  shouldn’t  actually  bother  eating  it.” 

_Way  to  make  yourself  look  good,  Louis,_   he  chides  himself.   

“’s  not  gonna  be  shit,  Lou.”  Harry  says  quietly,  and  Louis  doesn’t  know  if  the  fact  that  Harry  has  him  on  some  sort  of  pedestal  makes  him  panicked  or  delighted.  “Say  that  again  once  you’ve  actually  tried  it.”  he  tells  Harry,  but  nevertheless  leads  him  over  to  the  table  and  pulls  his  chair  out  for  him  because  no  matter  what  his  numerous  exes  tell  you,  he  is  a  Proper  Gentleman™. 

“I  see  you’ve  decided  to  forgo  candles.”  Harry’s  eyes  meet  his  over  the  table  once  he’s  sat  down,  and  he  can’t  help  the  laugh  that  forces  itself  past  his  lips. 

“I’m  saving  that  for  later.”  he  says,  gauging  the  way  Harry’s  eyes  widen  almost imperceptively.  If  his  pupils  look  like  they’re  blown  a  little  wider  than  they  usually  are,  that’s  none  of  Louis’  business  (except  that  it  is,  and  he  totally  notices). 

 

-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐ 

 

It’s  perfect.  Louis  has  no  other  way  to  describe  it  other  than  that. 

They  drink  shitty  cheap  wine  and  laugh  at  anything  and  everything  for  absolutely  no  reason  and  pretend  that  Louis’  cooking  isn’t  terrible  (it  is). 

Louis  gets  to  see  the  way  that  the  wine  makes  Harry’s  lips  darken  and  his  eyes  gradually  become  more  and  more  glazed  over,  until  his  words  are  slurring  a  little  bit  and  his  movements  are  even  slower  than  usual. 

“Think  you’ve  had  just  about  enough  of  that,”  he  informs  Harry,  reaching  over  to  move  Harry’s  wine  glass  just  out  of  his  reach.   

Harry  frowns  and  shakes  his  head,  reaching  towards  the  glass  despite  the  fact  that  it’s  most  definitely  out  of  his  reach.  He  holds  his  hand  out  towards  it  for  a  few  moments  before  he  seemingly  realises  that  his  arm  isn’t  going  to  somehow  magically  elongate  and  make  him  able  to  reach  it. 

“Lou,”  he  says  in  a  tone  that  makes  Louis  chuckle  under  his  breath.  He’s  trying  just  a  little  too  hard  to  sound  commanding,  and  instead  he  just  sounds  childish. 

“Harry.”  Louis  replies,  trying  to  mimic  the  overly  concentrated  expression  on  Harry’s  face. 

Harry  frowns  a  little  and  kicks  weakly  at  his  ankle  under  the  table.  “I  do  not  look  like  that.  Give  me  my  wine  back.” 

Louis  shakes  his  head,  unable  to  keep  the  mirth  off  his  face  now. 

“Stop  laughing  at  me.”  Harry  scowls,  reaching  for  the  half  full  glass  again  fruitlessly.   

“’m  not  laughing,  babe.” 

“’s  nothing  funny.  Just  want  my  wine  back.” 

“So  come  here  and  get  it.”  Louis  slides  his  chair  back  from  the  table  a  little  way  and  pats  his  lap.  He  holds  his  glass  up  in  one  hand  and  watches  Harry  expectantly. 

Harry  sits  there  and  surveys  him  for  a  few  moments  with  narrowed  eyes,  before  he’s  scrambling  out  of  his  chair  and  making  his  way  uncoordinatedly  into  Louis’  lap.  He  straddles  him,  resting  his  knees  either  side  of  Louis’  hips.  Louis  rests  his  hand  on  the  small  of  Harry’s  back  to  steady  him,  and  Harry  huffs  a  laugh,  resting  a  hand  on  Louis’  shoulder. 

Bringing  his  other  hand  up,  he  wraps  it  around  Louis’  wrist  and  tilts  the  glass  so    he  can  drink  from  it.   

Louis  watches  him  drink,  eyeing  the  pale  expanse  of  his  neck  and  the  oddly  hypnotic  way  that  his  Adam’s  apple  bobs  with  every  swallow.  Eventually,  he  tilts  the  glass  back  and  holds  it  out  of  Harry’s  reach.  He  evidently  still  has  some  self  control  left,  at  least. 

When  Harry  pouts  at  him,  he  shakes  his  head.  “Trying  to  be  a  responsible  adult  here.  Need  I  remind  you  that  you’re  still  not  old  enough  to  be  drinking?” 

Harry  wraps  an  arm  around  Louis’  neck  and  slides  his  hand  up  the  back  of  his  head  to  card  his  fingers  through  his  hair.  “But  you’re  letting  me  anyway.”  Harry  whispers,  and  then  kisses  him. 

Louis  is  powerless  to  do  anything  but  lean  up  and  kiss  him  back,  drinking  in  the  soft,  desperate  sounds  Harry  is  making  against  his  lips.  He  reaches  around  Harry  to  put  his  glass  down  on  the  table,  afraid  that  if  he  doesn’t  put  it  down,  he’ll  surely  drop  it.   

Harry  doesn’t  stop  kissing  him,  so  Louis  slips  his  hands  under  Harry’s  shirt  and  runs  his  hands  up  his  sides  and  then  down  his  chest.  Harry  shivers  a  little,  pressing  himself  even  closer  to  Louis.   

The  sudden,  inexplicable  urge  to  see  Harry,  to  watch  him  coming  undone  hits  Louis  suddenly,  so  he  opens  his  eyes  just  a  crack  to  find  Harry’s  eyes  already  open.  They’re  darker  than  Louis  has  ever  seen  them  and  the  pupils  are  blown  wide,  and  Louis  just  wants  to  keep  on  kissing  him,  but  Harry  pulls  back.   

He  takes  a  deep  breath,  eyes  still  focussed  on  Louis’  lips  before  he  sits  up  a  little  straighter  and  asks,  “Do  you  have  a  lighter?” 

“Harry,  what–”  Louis  cuts  himself  off,  because  this  is  Harry,  after  all.  He  shouldn’t  even  bother  asking  questions  anymore.   

“And  marshmallows.  We  need  marshmallows.”  Harry  decides,  before  he  hops  off  Louis’  lap  and  onto  his  feet,  walking  towards  the  kitchen  cupboards  with  only  minimal  stumbling.    Louis  rushes  forward  to  place  a  hand  on  the  small  of  Harry’s  back  to  guide  him.  Harry  is  _so_   lucky  he’s  whipped.   

“We  only  have  mini  marshmallows,”  Louis  tells  him,  “And  they’re  in  the  cupboard  above  the  stove.” 

Harry  reaches  up  and  opens  the  cupboard  and  Louis  marvels  over  the  fact  that  Harry  is  _that_   much  taller  than  him  that  he  doesn’t  have  to  climb  on  the  counter  like  Louis  does.  Admittedly,  though,  Harry  isn’t  actually  tall  enough  to  see  into  the  cupboard  so  he  gropes  around  blindly  until  he  manages  to  procure  the  half  empty  bag  of  mini  marshmallows  hidden  right  at  the  back.   

“Now  we  need  a  lighter.” 

Louis  rolls  his  eyes.  “Harry,  you  can’t  tell  me  you  don’t  have  a  lighter  on  you.” 

“I  do,”  Harry  concedes,  “But  it’s  yellow.  I  only  use  it  in  emergencies.” 

“Is  yellow,  like,  some  sort  of  universal  pyro  emergency  colour?” 

“No,”  Harry  admits,  looking  far  too  defensive.  “I  just  really  hate  yellow.” 

Louis  tries  his  best  not  to  laugh,  he  really  does.  Apparently,  though,  he  doesn’t  do  too  good  a  job  of  it.    

Harry  looks  mildly  offended,  so  Louis  does  his  best  to  appease  him.     

“I  don’t  like  yellow  much  either,  actually.  It’s,  uh,  too  bright.  And  too  cheerful.” 

Harry  looks  at  him  expectantly,  so  Louis  continues.  “Orange  is  way  better,  isn’t  it?” 

Finally  surrendering,  Harry  nods,  his  cheeks  dimpling  as  he  grins.   

“Orange  is  _way_   better.”  Harry  agrees,  before  he  drops  his  voice  to  a  whisper.  “Orange  with  heart  stickers  is  even  better,  though.” 

Louis  wants  to  tell  him  that  he’s  an  idiot,  and  that  _orange  with  heart  stickers_ isn’t  even  a  colour,  but  Harry  is  so  _pretty_   and  Louis  is  so  _gone_   for  him  that  the  words  get  lost  somewhere  between  Louis’  brain  and  his  tongue. 

“Orange  with  heart  stickers  is  the  best.”  Louis  replies  instead,  and  when  the  _fuck_   did  he  manage  to  become  such  a  sap? 

Louis’  new  sap  status  is  only  affirmed  further  when  Harry  snags  a  marshmallow  from  the  bag  and  pops  it  into  his  mouth  when  he  thinks  Louis  isn’t  looking.  He  knows  full  well  that  he’s  supposed  to,  like,  defend  his  food  but  it’s  _Harry_.   

God _._

_-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐_

“Harry,  are  you  sure  that  this  is  a  good  idea?”  Louis  queries.  Harry’s  teeth  are  dug  into  his  plump  lower  lip  in  concentration  as  he  flicks  the  spark  wheel  of  the  lighter,  trying  to  get  it  to  ignite.   

“It’s  a  brilliant  idea,  Louis.  One  of  my  best.” 

Louis  nods,  totally  unconvinced.  He  now  knows  why  there’s  an  age  limit  on  buying  lighters  (although  he  doesn’t  _totally_   regret  buying  Harry  that  lighter  in  Tesco’s  what  feels  like  an  age  ago.  They  probably  wouldn’t  be  here  if  he  hadn’t). 

“Hey,  where’d  you  get  this  lighter  from?  I  thought  I  was  your  number  one  illegal  lighter  supplier.” 

“’s  not  illegal.”  Harry  mutters,  still  trying  to  get  the  lighter  to  work.  “See,  this  lighter  hates  me  just    as  much  as  I  hate  it.” 

Louis  shakes  his  head  and  grabs  the  lighter  out  of  Harry’s  hand,  striking  the  spark  wheel  himself  and  grinning  manically  when  a  flame  flickers  up  straight  away.   

_“_ I’m  a  better  pyro  than  you  and  I’m  not  even  a  pyro.”  Louis  chuckles,  letting  the  flame  flicker  out  and  a  new  one  appear  in  its  place.   

“Beginner’s  luck.”  counters  Harry,  reaching  into  the  bag  for  a  marshmallow  and  holding  it  out  between  his  index  finger  and  thumb.  After  a  moment,  he  adds,  “My  sister.” 

Louis  quirks  a  questioning  eyebrow.   

“She  bought  me  this  one.  She  usually  does  if  they  don’t  let  me.”   

“Ah.” 

“Stop  sounding  so  unimpressed  and  help  me  roast  this  marshmallow.” 

_Well_.  “Manners,  Harry.  Respect  your  elders.”  Louis  chastises  laughingly,  but  holds  out  the  lighter  and  flicks  it  on  again  anyway.   

Harry  holds  the  mini  marshmallow  out  just  over  the  flame,  watching  the  underside  of  the  marshmallow  brown  slowly.   

“Done!”  he  announces  after  about  a  minute  has  passed,  and  holds  the  marshmallow  up  to  Louis’  mouth  until  Louis  closes  his  lips  around  the  tips  of  Harry’s  fingers  and  takes  it.    He  hums,  letting  the  saccharine,  vanilla  like  taste  of  the  marshmallow  wash  over  his  tongue.  This  was  certainly  a  good  idea,  he  has  to  give  Harry  credit  for  that.  Pyros  aren’t  _all_   bad  (or  at  least  his  isn’t). 

 

“My  go,”  Harry  declares,  and  takes  the  lighter  from  Louis  before  sparking  it  himself,  watching  the  flame  with  almost  cartoon‐like  fascination,  wide  eyes  and  a  slack  jaw.  Louis  gingerly  holds  out  a  marshmallow,  letting  Harry  position  the  glowing  flame  under  it.  It  almost  makes  Louis  want  to  laugh,  the  fact  that  fire  is  probably  the  single  most  destructive  force  in  the  world  and  could  easily  destroy  them  both  in  mere  moments,  yet  here  they  are  using  it  to  roast  marshmallows.   

It’s  not  unlike  holding  his  hand  above  a  candle,  his  fingers  start  to  burn  almost  straight  away  but  not  unbearably  so.  He  focuses  on  the  way  that  the  winking  light  of  the  flame  makes  Harry’s  eyelashes  cast  sweeping  shadows  across  his  cheeks,  making  his  whole  face  look  softer,  rounder.   

Harry’s  almost  gaping  at  the  flame  now,  and  the  heat  against  Louis’  fingers  is  beginning  to  feel  uncomfortable. 

“Harry,”  he  whispers,  reluctant  to  break  Harry  from  his  reverie. 

Harry  doesn’t  respond,  so  Louis  tries  again,  a  little  louder. 

“Harry,”  he  says,  “Babe.” 

“Huh?”  Harry  responds  dreamily,  almost  in  a  daze.  The  marshmallow  begins  to  melt  a  moment  later,  a  sticky,  baby  pink  drop  landing  on  Harry’s  hand.  He  blinks  and  flicks  the  lighter  off,  as  if  snapping  out  of  a  dream.  The  sudden  cool  in  the  room  makes  Louis  realise  just  how  burnt  his  fingers  actually  are,  and  he  does  his  best  to  smother  the  wince  that  comes  out  of  his  mouth,  but  it  doesn’t  quite  work.   

In  the  split  second  that  he’s  debating  whether  or  not  to  rush  over  to  the  sink  and  stick  his  hand  under  the  cold  tap,  a  sudden  wet  warmth  engulfs  the  two  fingers  that  were  holding  the  marshmallow.   

Harry’s  eyes  are  apologetic  when  they  gaze  down  into  Louis’  a  moment  later,  his  tongue  working  against  the  underside  of  Louis’  index  finger.   

The  sensation  goes  almost  straight  to  Louis’  groin  and  he  shudders,  squeezing  his  eyes  shut  tightly  before  opening  them  again.  He’s  gone  from  pained  to  aroused  in  the  space  of  about  5  seconds  and  it’s  a  little  too  much  for  his  brain  to  process  so  quickly.   

Harry’s  slick  tongue  deftly  laps  the  thick,  treacly  marshmallow  off  his  fingers,  making  soft,  throaty  sounds  that  Louis  almost  doesn’t  catch.    He  reaches  down  to  palm  himself  through  his  jeans  with  his  spare  hand,  choosing  to  ignore  the  fact  that  he’s  literally  getting  hard  just  because  of  the  fact  that  his  fingers  are  in  Harry’s  mouth.   

One  glance  at  Harry’s  crotch  confirms  that  Harry  also  is,  and  seemingly  for  exactly  the  same  reason.   

“Is  that  good,  baby?”  Louis  whispers,  glancing  back  up  to  meet  Harry’s  eyes.  “Having  my  fingers  in  your  mouth?” 

Harry  nods  frantically,  his  lips  going  a  little  slack  around  Louis’  fingers.  His  lips  are  plump  and  glistening  wet  with  saliva,  and  Louis  can't  decide  whether  he  wants  to  kiss  him  or  thrust  his  fingers  even  further  down  Harry’s  throat.   

He  goes  with  the  former,  slipping  his  fingers  out  of  Harry’s  mouth  and  looping  his  arms  around  his  neck,  crashing  their  lips  together  with  such  force  that  their  teeth  collide.  Louis  briefly  considers  pulling  back  and  checking  if  Harry’s  okay,  but  any  thoughts  of  that  notion  disappear  when  Harry  moans  into  his  mouth,  loud  and  desperate,  and  presses  himself  into  Louis’  thigh.   

Harry’s  responsiveness  alone  makes  something  in  the  pit  of  Louis’  stomach  tighten.  It’s  the  filthily  frenzied  way  he  kisses  Louis;  tongue,  teeth  and  lips,  the  erratic  puffs  of  air  Louis  feels  as  Harry  pants  hotly  against  his  lips  and  the  way  his  hips  rut  against  Louis  desperately    with  no  rhythm  or  purpose  other  than  to  get  himself  off.  And  all  Louis  has  really  done  is  kiss  him. Jesus,  Harry  really  is  seventeen.   

“Look  how  turned  on  you  are,”  Louis  murmurs.  Harry  nods  eagerly,  peppering  feverish  open  mouthed  kisses  over  Louis’  face,  nonsensical  whimpers  pouring  off  his  tongue  until  Louis  kisses  him  quiet. 

Harry’s  already  dangerously  close  if  the  stuttering  movements  of  his  hips  are  anything  to  go  by,  so  Louis  drops  a  hand  to  undo  the  button  of  his  jeans  and  then  his  fly.  It’s  a  little  tricky  considering  Harry  can’t  keep  his  hips  still  and  they  keep  jerking  into  Louis’  hand,  but  he  manages.  He’s  dealt  with  worse.   

Louis  gives  Harry  a  few  moments  to  collect  himself,  (god  knows  where  he  finds  enough  self  restraint  to  stop  kissing  him,  even  for  a  few  seconds)  stroking  his  hip  gently  as  Harry  breathes  in  deeply  through  his  nose,  squirming  where  he  stands.  Louis’  eyes  catch  the  way  that  Harry’s  thighs  are  trembling  with  the  effort  to  not  thrust  his  hips  forward  again,  and  _fuck_.  He  hasn’t  got  enough  self  restraint  to  ignore  _that_.   

Harry  tips  his  head  back  and  keens  wantonly  even  before  Louis  has  managed  to  get  his  hand  into  his  boxers  properly.  Once  Louis’  fist  is  around  him,  Harry  tucks  his  head  into  the  junction  between  Louis’  neck  and  shoulder,  breathing  out  a  f _uck  yeah._ The  lube  is  all  the  way  over  in  Louis’  bedroom,  and  there’s  no  way  he’s  leaving  Harry  even  for  a  second  to  get  it.  He  spits  into  his  palm  before  slipping  his  hand  back  into  Harry’s  boxers.   

It  only  takes  a  few  short  strokes  before  Louis  feels  Harry’s  thighs  tense  and  before  Louis  can  even  pull  back,  Harry  bites  down  hard  just  above  his  collarbone.   

The  sharp  pain  is  what  makes  Louis  lose  it,  and  he  squeezes  his  eyes  shut  tight  as  he  comes  in  his  own  boxers,  dazzling  lattice  patterns  dancing  behind  his  eyelids  as  he  slowly  catches  his  breath.   

When  he  opens  his  eyes  again,  Harry  is  still  shuddering  against  him,  so  he  strokes  him  right  through  his  orgasm  until  he  collapses  against  Louis  bonelessly,  his  unsteady  breaths  almost  scorching  against  Louis’  neck.   

“Louis?”  Harry  murmurs,  his  voice  catching  unsteadily  on  a  small  sob. 

Louis  nods,  rubbing  his  hands  up  and  down  Harry’s  back  as  he  holds  Harry  up  against  him.  “I’m  right  here,  baby.” 

Harry  takes  a  long,  shuddering  breath  before  he  pulls  back  just  enough  to  look  Louis  in  the  face.  His  gaze  is  somehow  both  distant  and  intense  simultaneously  and  there’s  a  flush  of  vivid  scarlet  high  on  his  cheekbones.  Louis  has  never  seen  him  look  so  beautiful. 

“’s  how  I  always  imagined  burning  would  feel.”  he  says  softly,  almost  thoughtfully.  “Just  like  that.” 

Remembering  the  heat  he  felt  burning  under  his  skin  just  moments  ago,  Louis  can  almost  see  why  Harry  likes  fire  so  much. 

_Almost_.   


End file.
